They only babble who practise not reflection
Creation sleeps! 'T is as the general pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause,- An awful pause! prophetic of her end.
As soon as we have found the key of life, it opens the gates of death.
Ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.
Ah, how unjust to Nature and himself Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!
But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.